Tag Archives: Haibun

Full Disclosure

My haibun “Full Disclosure” appears in Drifting Sands issue 24, 2023, p. 91. This fictional account of an encounter between two people in a highly embarrassing situation, and their ways of coping with it, can be accessed by clicking here.

Alternatively, “Full Disclosure” may be enjoyed below.

Full Disclosure


It’s getting dark early. The yellow light seeping from the lamp on the mantelpiece dissolves before reaching the corners of the room. He is sitting opposite me, tall and dark-haired, an air of confident irony hanging from his lips. Leaning forward, and looking straight into my eyes,
he asks:
“Are you incontinent?”
I shift in my chair and, clearing my throat, I reply. He jots down something in his notebook.
“Do you wear these things that women . . .” his voice trails off.
“Eh, you see . . .” I cough and cough.
While he records my answer, I manage to find my bearings. I know he does this all day, every day, it’s his job. He visits people with disabilities to assess
the level of care they need. Can you cook, can you dress unaided. Can you leave the house on your own. All the practical details that together amount to an identity that is meant to be you.
He is staring at the darkness spreading outside. It must be getting to him. Rumor has it that after work, he leaps into his red Boxster and drives on the autobahn for hours at high speed.


hovering
the kestrel observes
its prey

Sky Ponds in CHO 19.2

Happy to see my haibun “Sky Ponds-Himmelsweicher” appear in Contemporary Haibun Online 19.2

I found out about the bomb craters in the Augsburg city forest during a walk with my Parkinson’s walking group. Marvelous recovery of a wounded landscape, and people. And apt for our own situation of struggling with progressive disease.

bomb craters

Sky Ponds—Himmelsweiher

The Siebentischwald, on the edge of Augsburg, acts as the lung of the city. Lush green vegetation crisscrossed by water channels and dotted by silent ponds makes this forest the life force of Augsburg. It turns out it is also the repository of an interesting piece of the city’s history: the forest floor bearing the scars of thousands of bombs that were dropped on it towards the end of World War II.

On my morning walk with my Parkinson’s group, in this peaceful, green oasis, pierced by high-pitched peacock cries from the adjacent Zoo, I come across oval ponds and other depressions filled with vegetation. I am told they are Bombenkrater, the remnants of craters formed by aerial bombing.

The proximity to the munitions manufacturer Messerschmitt meant that bombs often landed in the forest. However, the massive bombing raid in February 1944 literally dug up the forest floor, leaving numerous wounds on the landscape. In recent years, a public charity transformed some of these craters into ponds brimming with life.

cool forest shade. . .

lingering by the sky ponds

heat from the past

A Cluster of Lights

A Cluster of Lights is here!

This beautiful anthology is now out in the world! Celebrating the ten-year anniversary of the brilliant project ’52 / 250 -A Year of Flash,’ 52 writers (including yours truly), respond to their previous work with new creations.

Congratulations and many thanks to Michelle Elvy, John Wentworth Chapin, and all contributors!

The link at the publisher’s site is here: https://pureslush.com/…/anthologie…/a-cluster-of-lights/

• paperback – https://bit.ly/PB-CLUSTER

• ePub – https://bit.ly/ePubCluster

• Kindle – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C56JGVJ9/

For a ‘taste of a Cluster of Lights’, click below:

https://bit.ly/Clustertaste

In REFLECT, at Creek Creative Studios

I am happy to be included in the REFLECT and Intriguerium 3 exhibition at Creek Creative Studios, Faversham, England, curated by Robert Lamoon. Two of my tiny haibun, as two objects, are to be found in tiny boxes made by the curator!

One of the haibun, Who is, was inspired by a story I read in the news: the calcified remains of an unborn fetus were found accidentally during a scan for a totally unrelated health problem. The fetus had rested inside its mother’s body for over thirty years…

Who is

Lithopedion. The calcified remains. Bonded. Forever. The grief of the unborn, the consolation of eternity.

stone baby
the weight
of forever

Are you in the area? The exhibition is on till the 16th of April!

REFLECT

Apathy

APATHY

The Luitpold Bridge in Munich is closed. Climate activists have glued themselves to the road disrupting traffic. They are not afraid of a jail sentence, they say. Part of me yearns to be there with them. Making statements, taking action. Instead, I follow signs for an alternative route, like so many ahead of me, and so many behind. Our long, slow-moving queue snakes around our principles.

on the radio…
instructions for instant
gratification

In The Other Bunny 27 Feb 2023

The 3 micro-haibun in MacQueen’s Quinterly

The three micro-haibun from the series-in-progress The Censored Poems

Bone Broth

The very antithesis of cherry blossom. On the one hand and on the other. And in between

breathing
the torpid air of the mausoleum
morels, porcini, chanterelles

*

Off Time

Play if you must. Laugh till you cry. But life is serious. The road is hard, paved with hunger, illness, war. Greed and envy. They will haunt you. Pick apples if you must. Oranges, figs. It won’t make any difference.

Hosannah!
at the nudist beach
my sunglasses

*

Wabi-sabi

Now that that illness accosted me and I stood up to it, I feel entitled to a few wisdoms.

minding the gap
the chilling beauty
of angels 

Body language


Sixty years ago, she swallowed her grandmother’s most valuable possession: a ring, the only object to have survived the forced expulsion from their ancestral lands. The very ring that her grandmother, every night before bed, kissed and raised to the sky as if God needed the daily reminder that he had let her down.

Since that day of the half-accidental ingestion, and for two years afterward, the child was forced to use a potty, so that her grandmother could search its contents for the ring. To no avail.

In the summer of 2021, however, the ring exited the girl—now a grandmother herself—as if of its own volition. Effortlessly. The symbol of her family’s pain that her muscles had smothered, had been released. She heard the sound and to her astonishment, saw the ring lying at the bottom of the toilet bowl. Feeling nauseous, and while trying to steady herself, she accidentally pulled the chain that flushed away her long-held secret. She caught a glimpse of the ring before it disappeared in the swirling water to join the big, open sea.

letting go—
hunger for Scheherazade’s
stories

*

In Drifting Sands Haibun, issue 14, March 2022

For What We are About to Receive

Haibuphoria!

“For What We are About to Receive” my haibun on Drifting Sands— A journal of Haibun and Tanka Prose, Issue 13 (edited by Adelaide B. Shaw) is now online in both Web and PDF versions. https://drifting-sands-haibun.org/…/for-what-we-are…

The whole issue of wonderful haibun is available here:Web: https://drifting-sands-haibun.org/ Enjoy!

Collateral Damage in CHO 17.1

Collateral Damage
After four or five years, the miracle pill—the “gold standard” of Parkinson’s treatment—loses its sparkle. The drug wears off several times a day, allowing symptoms to reappear or worsen. Unless you increase the dosage, you’ll be staring into the abyss: muscle stiffness, imbalance, weakness, lethargy… And if you increase it?

dyskinesia. . .
how tall grass
sways

In Contemporary Haibun Online 17.1

Beyond Me in CHO 17.1

Beyond Me
There is a point at which thought unravels, where cosmic dust swims on waves our brains are not equipped to comprehend. This is the reason we learn to speak of concrete things caught by the senses – the fragrance of flowers, light and shadow, bird song, the weight of snow. Holding tight to the literal, we learn to survive.

Betelgeuse. . .
on my third cup
of strong coffee

In Contemporary Haibun Online

Lullaby in MacQueens Quinterly

My heartfelt thanks to editor Clare MacQueen for publishing this haibun
in issue 7 of MacQueen’s Quinterly. It had originally appeared in the
Wales Haiku Journal.

Lullaby

It’s at its loudest in the early morning hours. Before light dissolves darkness, before the neighbour leaves for work, before the birds start singing, his laboured breathing comes over the baby monitor whispering, gurgling, rattling, spluttering….

I lie awake listening to the crack of thunder, the roaring waterfall, the sounds of the sea emitted from his chest. A car starting, the exhaust backfiring, the train leaving station. The boat reversing in the harbour. Light rain. A soft meow. His breathing renders a whole world. In this soundscape, I make out the stories he told me when years ago he put me to bed.

Soon, light dispels the apparitions, and his breath comes over the monitor soft, steady, regular, lulling me to sleep.

music of the spheres
how we became
human

Portrait

painting Maria Pierides

A woman reading a letter in the light pouring through an unseen window. Hair pulled back from the forehead, she is pictured in the style of her favorite painter against an expanse of soft yellows. Areas of blue for the shadows, the armchair and her top allude to hidden layers.

camera obscura

the temptation to see

depth

Her upper body is turned towards the light, held by it, trapped by it. Arrested in the moment, her Parkinson’s is invisible. In a minute or two, she’ll have to change position, align her spine, prevent stiffness from setting in.

Amsterdam to Delft…

in their seats now, the old couple

remove their face masks

This is a good day. In the early hours of the morning, she’d lain listening to the woodpecker hammering time. As the hours rolled in, she made fabric out of wool, squeezed poetry out of the daily grind, mailed her loved ones. Read their letters…

lapis lazuli…

shifting attention

to what matters

Portrait, Maria Pierides

This haibun, a collaboration with artist and daughter Maria Pierides, appeared in the project Love in the Time of Covid

here

Maria Pierides’s art is for sale from Saatchi Art and from her website

“So that we remember” wins first place in the MacQueen’s Quinterly Ekphrastic Challenge

Thrilled to have won first place in MacQueen’s Quinterly Ekphrastic Challenge “The Magician”!

A heartfelt thank you to Clare MacQueen for selecting my haibun “So that we remember” and congratulations to all participants in the contest!
Read “So that we remember” here: http://www.macqueensquinterly.com/MacQ3/Pierides-Remember.aspx

For the background to the contest and full results see here: http://www.macqueensquinterly.com/Contests/Magician-Results.aspx

‘Intertextuality’ in What I Hear When Not Listening

I am very pleased to see my haibun diptych ‘Intertextuality,’ originally published in Sonic Boom 4, included in this Anthology! Grateful to editor Shloka Shankar!

Sonic Boom writes:

We are delighted to announce the publication of our second anthology, ‘What I Hear When Not Listening: Best of The Poetry Shack & Fiction, Vol. I.’

Featuring work by 41 contributors to our journal between the years 2014 and 2019, this collection brings together the best pieces that were published under The Poetry Shack and Fiction sections of the journal from issues one through fifteen.

Order your copy here

‘Noir’ in MacQueen’s Quinterly

Issue 2 of MacQueen’s Quinterly is out and I am delighted to have a haibun triptych included! Many thanks to editor Clare MacQueen! Read “Noir” here and below:

Noir [A Triptych]

Snow white

A small room, white walls, white lino floor. Sheets like snow. Her deep breathing. Hair the color of frost. Beads of sweat on her forehead, in the folds of her neck. She is dreaming.

crow’s call
a night unlike
any other

and her life

A small room. Unmade bed, a chair toppled over. Two plastic cups on the floor. Walls of indistinct colour. The Book of Sand open at the foot of the bed.

no one here
lives like a princess—
mushy peas for tea

as it might have been

A room 5’x5′. No curtains. Aretha Franklin’s “I say a Little Prayer” from the room next door. Birds. On the pavement outside her window, fag ends and chewing gum.

diaphanous—
lives of others in frequencies
I can hear

‘Homewards’ in KYSO Flash 12

Honoured to have my haibun “Homewards” included in “White Blossoms”
[An e-Collection of Photographs and Words] by Susan Tekulve in KYSO Flash 12!
{scroll down the page to “Magnolia blossoms and red clay”}

Many thanks to editor Clare MacQueen!

“White Blossoms:” “In addition to photographs and lyrical prose by essayist and novelist Susan Tekulve, this collection contains prosimetra by authors such as Rick Mulkey, Stella Pierides, Brenda Sutton Rose, and Carl Sandburg, among others.”

Magnolia
Magnolia Exmouth

‘Solace’ in Open: Journal of Arts and Letters

“Three Vertical Landscapes” by Wiiliam Tillyer

Solace (Triptych)

In a dark wood . . .

Heaving streets, bulging with holiday shoppers. Shop windows in garish colours blink their version of hell. As soon as I get the present I came for, I head for home.

Running for the bus, I bump into someone, or he bumps into me. The double-decker reeks of wet clothes. A young woman, clutching her baby close to her chest, is arguing with the bus driver who refuses to let her on without a ticket.

We stay put for a good thirty minutes, until a passenger, with a shaking hand, taps his debit card on the card reader and pays the fare for her.

the baby babbles . . .
raindrops on
the bus window

and without props

It hasn’t rained for weeks. The two workmen in my back garden, digging the foundations for a cat enclosure, sound industrious. There is a young apple tree standing right in the middle of it, and I have instructed them to shorten its branches so that it can be contained within the structure. I imagine my two cats spending happy hours climbing it, perching on its branches. But when I look outside, I see the tree is missing. I am told it was taking too much space and they decided to remove it for me, at no extra cost.

short shrift
the town crier’s
hoarse voice

against freezing

I own five hot water bottles. As you might have guessed, I feel the cold more than others. When I place these hot, felt-wrapped receptacles on my coldest parts, I experience the bliss others must take for granted.

clang of a spade
I imagine the workmen
striking gold

In Open: Journal of Arts and Letters, 25 Feb 2019 h

and check out the whole journal: a rich and rewarding read!

‘Seriously’ in Open: Journal of Arts and Letters

“Spitalfield” by William Tillyer

The shelves in the beauty aisle are piled high with hand creams. Tubes, jars, bottles, tins of brands I never knew existed. So many! I stand here for a while, wondering whether this abundance could be attributed to the forthcoming Brexit. After all, all sorts of strange events in the last couple of years have been attributed to it. I imagine that both remainers and leavers would need a cream to soothe their hands after clapping for one or the other speaker; after rubbing their eyes in disbelief on reading the daily news or covering their ears for hours in the gesture perfectly captured by Munch’s “The Scream.” Could this be it?

late winter
the street dog’s sad
whimper

In Open: Journal of Arts and Letters, 25 Feb 2019, Mixed forms: Haibun

‘Absences’ in Unbroken Journal

cemetery

The ossuary, a white-washed, rectangular building, is dark and cool. A musty smell envelops me as I enter. I am searching for the metal box containing my mother’s bones.

I’ve been told she is confined to one on the shelves that run the length of the room. I start searching methodically. Each box has a small hand-written label with the deceased’s name on its front. Several labels are blank. One has a dried daisy flower stuck on it with Sellotape; another, a star in cross stitch; yet another, a tiny motorcycle sticker. Photographs of the dead looking youthful are taped to several boxes, or placed next to them, complicating identification of the containers’ occupants.

Disheartened, I leave the grim building to walk in the dappled shade of the graveyard. The hum of the city mixes with birdsong. So many years since I was in Athens. I stop to read the names of the deceased on headstones, marvel at the stone angels, at the oil lamps. Soon my head is swimming. A woman burning sweet-smelling incense over a grave turns to look at me. I quickly look away, but then, returning her gaze, I nod and she smiles.

noon heat
a hairline crack
in the angel’s wing

In Unbroken Journal, issue 20, 2019

Haibun Triptych

Reality Bites

In my teens I spent school holidays in the local library. From opening to closing time, the library was my home. In the sizzling Athenian summers, it was the only cool place to be. The silence in the reading room felt like a blessing. Sitting at my desk I listened. A page turned. Someone shifted in their chair. Someone sighed. Silence again. I revelled in the sounds of human presence in this magic emptiness. A paradise. Except one day, when a cicada started singing. Having found its way in, it perched on Borges’s “The Book of Sand.” Heads turned. There was a commotion. A reader screamed, “Get this thing out of here!” The librarian, arm raised, raced to the shelf to swat the culprit, but the insect was no longer there.

turning the page
I come across the truth …
midsummer darkness

And yet

The road twists and turns for miles ahead. The refugee caravan moves haltingly forward. Mothers carrying their babies; dazed children, old people, the young, all stagger towards a safer future. Crossing the Red Sea, walking through deserts, wading across the Suchiate River, the caravan camps at Calais, rests for a night on Lesvos, repopulates the Sicilian city of Sutera, rows across river Evros. Razor wire carves memories on children’s skin. A voice over the megaphone: “Achtung, Achtung!” Babies are born, grow teeth, learn to speak. It rains, it snows, it shines. New words enter dictionaries. Poems emerge from sleeping bags.

each spring
breaking through the soil . . .
the human heart

We carry on

We turn out the lights, fall asleep and emerge head first into the real world. Belief, disbelief, nuance, knowledge; science, art, even poetry we leave behind. We enter this eternal world without walls, where we have control over nothing, yet we are nothing less than the seed of the cosmos. Here is our true home: fluid, quiet, boundless.

In the morning, once the alarm clock’s trill drags us back into consciousness, we dress in soft flesh, teeth and nails, and catch the bus to work.

oak leaves …
planning to live past
one hundred

boat,

In Blue Fifth Review, The Blue Collection 9: Home

Image: ‘Boat’ by Maria Pierides

Haibun Triptych in Blue Fifth Review: The Blue Collection 9

Grateful thanks to Michelle Elvy and Sam Rasnake for publishing my Haibun Triptych in the special issue “The blue collection 9: Home” of the phenomenal Blue Fifth Review!
Photo magic “Boat” by Maria Pierides accompanies the triptych.
Check it out:
Blue Fifth Review … the blue collection: 9: home (Winter 2018 / 18.10)

Boat,Haibun Triptych "Home"